Poetics
by Pyroclast17
Summary: A series of drabbles inspired by the works of famous poets, including Mahon, Kinsella, Plath, Homer, Wordsworth, and Bishop. Perhaps more if I find anything fitting. Will probably contain Johnlock in future chapters.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi! While I attempted to study for my Leaving Cert, I became hyper aware of how much I really like poetry, and was inspired to write these drabbles. We begin with "Antarctica" by Derek Mahon. I hope you enjoy :D **

* * *

John once told me the true story of one Lawrence Oates, part of an expedition team attempting to reach the South Pole by foot. The man had developed severe frostbite and was endangering his comrades with his slow pace. One night, he got up and left the shelter, his last words convincing his friends that it was for the best- "I am just going outside and may be some time." But everybody on the expedition died anyway.

That tale sticks with me. I thought I had deleted it, but apparently not. It is fitting, really, that it would come to mind now. The exception being, of course, my "death" will not be futile in my attempts to save my friends from execution.

Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson.

John.

And me.

We're fighting against the freezing cold, and the snow is Moriarty. Every advancement of his plot is a biting gust of wind, luring me outside and into the enemy's grasp. That howling wind calls only for me.

And yet I am afraid. I don't show it. I can't show it. Like Oates, I'm simply going outside. I _will_ be some time. They can't know what I'm doing, and why. I can't put them in more danger than they are already in.

My worry is that a snowstorm doesn't stop after it has killed a man. The weather does not lay down arms when offered sacrifice. The cold reduces the world to white- blank, new and pointless. A storm does not stop until it is spent, and I doubt my suicide would be the warm front to push it all away. A cold front meets a warm front and war ensues. The storm gets stronger. The warm rises only to turn cold again and tumble downwards to Earth with a bang.

This could all be for nothing. But I need to hope that this heartless, heartfelt action saves those I hold dear. I give myself to the snow for them.

At the heart of the ridiculous, the sublime.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys, this one centers around Homer's Odyssey, which is technically a song when not translated, but obviously the tune hasn't survived so it's taken as poetry. And hey, it's known as Epic Poetry anyway cos Homer used dactylic hexameter aka a very complicated series of beats that is impossible to recreate in English. Also, sorry to anybody who doesn't know the story of the Odyssey, but it is super easy to look up and believe me, it's worth the read. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Sing to me Muse of that resourceful man who was driven to wander far and wide after he had sacked the holy citadel of Troy." John read the first line aloud with a hint of fond remembrance. He flicked back to the cover and ran a finger across a vein-like crease that bent the cover back.

"Polytropos is translated to "many turns", actually. E.V. Rieu. Butchering literature." Sherlock wiggled his nose, not moving his gaze from a mould-ridden petri dish.

John shook his head lightly and read over the line again in his head. Resourceful- polytropos- many turns- multifaceted- multi talented. Was this about a Greek hero or Sherlock Holmes? A quiet giggle escaped the doctor's mouth at the thought of Sherlock at the mercy of a sex-starved goddess, crying for days on end on the shores of a paradise island. Probably of boredom.

"What is it?" The detective was peering over the shorter man's shoulder before John even registered that he had been staring at the same word for almost a whole minute.

John shrugged. "Homer made it sound like you, not Odysseus, is all."

Sherlock flapped his hand at the book and put on his most indignant face. "Don't be ridiculous. My intellect is far superior in every way, and I wouldn't have been so easy to rope into going to Troy in the first place. A _farmer_. Painfully obvious." He plodded back over to the kitchen table.

John sighed and traced the binding absent-mindedly. "I _can_ see you pissing off a blind one-eyed giant, though." He noticed the detective pausing momentarily.

"If instead of Polyphemus, his name was Anderson, than I take your point."

John smirked in triumph, and placed the book down on the armrest of his chair. He stood up and moved to watch Sherlock work, praying he wouldn't catch him contaminating the leftover curry.

"Did you study classics in university along with chemistry?"

Sherlock glanced up at him, assessing.

"No. School. Broadened my knowledge in my spare time." John crossed his arms, a ghost of a smile playing across his lips.

"So what _did_ you study at uni?"

"Chemistry, as you said, anatomy, French." He paused, considering. "Did night classes in Chinese, English literature, and law. Internet courses in ancient Greek, mathematics, zoology and German. Might have done jam-making at some stage; pretty sure I deleted all of that."

John was grinning now.

"Absolutely nothing like polytropos Odysseus, then."

Sherlock scowled at him, and spat in the petri dish. Just to see what would happen, obviously.


	3. Chapter 3

**Inspired by Thomas Kinsella's "Model School in Inchicore". I think. I don't have my book anymore, but I wrote down the quote "I am going to know everything," and it just fit. So have some Kid!lock. **

* * *

It's my first day of primary school. The beginning of my quest to adulthood. Mummy said I was born for learning, because I already know how to read and write and count. I know the different types of birds in the garden, the geography of Britain, and the history of chocolate. Mummy promises that school will help me learn all sorts of other things.

But she said I also have to make friends.

Father knows I'm socially inept. He doesn't ask much of me around other people; he knows I don't like company. Mummy though, she thinks I just need to experience boys my own age. Now, I might be wrong, (although the chances of that are slim to none) but I thought intelligence got better with age. Like wine. If Mycroft is anything to go by then boys my own age will be the human equivalent of slugs to futuristic aliens.

Mycroft is incredibly stupid.

I think slugs are fascinating. They leave behind this rainbow slime, and they can creep up walls and can be disgusting wherever they want. I've done some experiments; they're wonderful to watch.

So... Maybe I could use school to my advantage in that way. Experimentation. I'll do my study, and be a good student, but instead of making friends, I will learn to understand my classmates.

Plan set.

It's my first day of primary school, and I am going to know everything.


End file.
